


just like every morning

by megeggsalad



Series: take a moment to breathe [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Insecurity, M/M, Mutual Pining, auston matthews is mentioned like once
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 14:21:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10538295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megeggsalad/pseuds/megeggsalad
Summary: Connor wakes up every morning, with his nose pressed into Dylan’s hair, Dylan’s hands resting against the skin of his stomach, and Dylan still asleep, and he doesn’t do a goddamn thing. He just waits for Dylan to slowly wake up, like he always does, three minutes after Connor, and when Dylan blinks up at Connor, eyes half-closed and drooping further with sleep, he says, “Hey, Dyls,” as if everything is fine and normal and he doesn’t want to put his mouth on every single inch of Dylan’s body.





	

**Author's Note:**

> set in the same universe as my brownie/freddie piece, but mostly unrelated. they all play on the same team because i do what i want. also connor and dylan have a ritual that i completely made up where they go to the rink and skate around early every morning of game days. i don't know if this is plausible or possible but again: i do what i want. thanks again to steph for this universe and also for supporting my career in every way possible. ur the best.

    Connor wakes up with his nose pressed into Dylan’s hair.  
    They’re both a little sweaty, blankets kicked off in their sleep hours ago because it’s always a bit hot when they share a bed--which, it’s been four years, and they still haven’t learned this lesson--and they share a bed almost every night.  
    So they’re both a little gross, and Dylan’s still asleep. And Connor knows this, because Dylan’s breathing does this little thing when he’s asleep where it stutters twice on the inhale. Connor also knows this because Dylan’s hands are still, like they never are when he’s awake, tangled into Connor’s shirt and pressed against the skin of his stomach.  
    But Connor doesn’t move, because he allows himself so little, and he thinks, every single morning, this is the last time. I won’t do it tomorrow. Just one last time, today. And then he disappoints himself all over again and wakes up and does the exact same goddamn thing.  
    That is: he wakes up every morning, with his nose pressed into Dylan’s hair, Dylan’s hands resting against the skin of his stomach, and Dylan still asleep, and he doesn’t do a goddamn thing. He just waits for Dylan to slowly wake up, like he always does, three minutes after Connor, and when Dylan blinks up at Connor, eyes half-closed and drooping further with sleep, he says, “Hey, Dyls,” as if everything is fine and normal and he doesn’t want to put his mouth on every single inch of Dylan’s body.  
    And this morning, just like every morning, Dylan lets out a soft groan and puts his head in the space where Connor’s shoulder meets his neck and whispers, “Hi, Connie,” and Connor just wishes--  
    Connor just wishes.  
    “Game day,” he says to Dylan, quietly.  
    Dylan makes a noise that means I know, and be quiet I want to sleep. They don’t have classes today, so it’s fine, but Connor has a routine to go through. No matter how much he’d rather stay in bed with his--with Dylan.  
    “C’mon, Dyls,” he whispers into Dylan’s hair. “We have to go before they start cleaning.”  
    “I know,” Dylan whines. “You’re warm. And soft. And I’m sleepy.”  
    Connor laughs, and it’s gentle. “I know,” he mocks. “Let’s go, lazy bug.”  
    “Lazy bug?” Dylan’s head pops up and he squints at Connor, his lips twitching.  
    “Hey, it’s been four years,” Connor says. “I can do the nickname thing, too.”  
    “Sure, Conbon,” Dylan says, and presses a smacking kiss on Connor’s cheek before rolling out of bed and walking into the bathroom.  
    And so Connor takes a moment to breathe, and to touch his cheek where Dylan’s lips touched it.  
    Because it’s been four years, and he still doesn’t know how to change this.  
***  
    Anna is at the rink, just opening up, when they get there. She smiles warmly at them and says, “We’ll start on the ice at nine. You two know the drill.”  
    “Yes, ma’am,” Connor says quietly while Dylan grins at her from behind his coffee cup.  
    The locker room is empty and Connor tries to do the same with his thoughts, but Dylan--every time he looks at Dylan, it just gets--it’s quiet and loud at the same time. He’s had all summer to get rid of this. Three months, and the first time he saw Dylan again on move-in day, smiling and moving towards him for a hug already, he’d just felt himself fall right back into it, into him, into exactly what he’d been trying to avoid for the three years before.  
    Connor watches Dylan take his jacket off in the corner of his eye, and when Dylan goes to lace up his skates, Connor puts himself on his knees between Dylan’s legs.  
    “Let me,” he says, and Dylan just looks at him, and his heart stops for a second, afraid he’s gone too far.  
    But Dylan just smiles so, so gently at him and says, “Be my guest, Davo,” and Connor laces his skates, trying to do it exactly how he’s watched Dylan do it for the past three years. Connor hasn’t had anyone else lace his skates since he was a kid, and he’s sure Dylan hasn’t either, but he just--he’d wanted to. He’d wanted to know what it would be like to put himself on his knees for Dylan just once.  
    And when he’s done, and he stands up to go put his own skates on, and Dylan says, “My turn, Davo,”--well. Connor loses his breath a little.  
    He watches Dylan kneel in front of him and wants to look away but can’t, and the way Dylan looks up at him from under his eyelashes is--it’s fucking obscene, and god, Connor wants.  
    “Good, Con?” Dylan asks, and Connor manages to gasp out, “Yeah,” before he has to stand up and turn away from Dylan so he doesn’t do something he’ll regret.  
    They’re careful on their way to the ice, with themselves and each other. Connor can tell Dylan opens his mouth a few times to say something but closes it again, and Connor wants to tell him that it’s okay, he can say something, wants to tell him that it’s okay with Connor if he never stops talking.  
    When they get to the ice, though, and Dylan steps up next to him, that trademark Strome smirk is there, and Connor isn’t shocked when he says, “First around the ice gets shake choice,” and takes off. Connor shakes his head and follows him.  
    “You know I’ll win!” he calls back as he passes Dylan and pushes himself into a sprint. He almost wants to close his eyes, he feels so steadied by the rink around him and the ice under his skates. He can almost feel the stick in his hands, the pads on his skin, the sweat dripping down the back of his neck.  
    He loves Dylan, but he loves hockey, too, and this--this has always sort of been it for Connor.  
    Which is why he half-laps Dylan, and comes out of his trance to the sound of Dylan’s laughter.  
    “You just completely left, Connie,” Dylan says from where he’s stopped at the center line. Connor obliges him and stops at center, on the opposite side of the rink. They both sort of slowly drift to the face off dot.  
    “Where’d you go?” Dylan sort of whispers it, when Connor gets close enough. His eyes are sparkling when he says it, but he also looks sad, and Connor--Connor can’t handle that.  
    “Nowhere, Dyls,” he says, and curls his fingers into Dylan’s sleeve. “I was here with you.”  
    “Are you sure?” Dylan asks, and if anything, he looks sadder. “I wanted to see you this summer, Davo.”  
    And there it is. There’s what they’d both been avoiding for months now. Connor had stayed away--for the first time in years--for the whole summer. He’d though it’d be fine, he and Dylan called and skyped and texted but--but Dylan had noticed. It kills him that Dylan had noticed, and that he’d put that look on Dylan’s face. Connor can practically read the question in his eyes: Am I not good enough for you any more?  
    “Dylan,” Connor breathes out, and reaches up, sweeping his thumb over Dylan’s cheek, cupping Dylan’s face with his hand. “Dylan, you--can I--”  
    “Yes,” Dylan breathes out, and his hands make fists in Connor’s shirt when Connor kisses him.  
    Dylan’s lips are soft but insistent, and Connor wants to fucking melt into him, and in a weird way, Connor sort of wants to die, so he can stop his timeline right here, right now, with just Dylan, Dylan, Dylan. He doesn’t give a shit if he never gets to play on NHL ice if he can have this forever.  
    “I’m sorry,” is the first thing that makes its way out of Connor’s mouth when he pulls away. “Not for--not for this, but for this summer, I thought it was just me, I wanted to--”  
    “You wanted to see if you could make it go away,” Dylan says, but it isn’t accusing. “It’s okay, Connor. I just--I wanted to see you. And it was never--it wasn’t ever just you.”  
    Connor pulls Dylan into his arms and curls into him, because god, this boy, and he never thought--just this morning, he could never have imagined--  
    Dylan goes to move but their skates tangle, and Connor lands hard on his ass, Dylan half on top of him, but before he has time to process Dylan’s laughing, and Connor’s not far behind. Eventually, Connor just gives up, and lays down flat on the ice, covering his face with his hands as he giggles.  
    Dylan rolls on top of him, and Connor’s laughter fades away pretty quickly, easing into a soft, fond smile. Connor has long since figured out that he has a smile just for Dylan, long before Auston even pointed it out to him.  
    “Hi,” Dylan whispers, and Connor drags a hand through his hair, pulling him back down. The ice is sort of cold against his back, but Dylan’s warmth makes up for it. Dylan’s mouth is still gentle on his, and that’s all Connor wants. Connor could get drunk off this feeling.  
    “Let’s take a lap,” Dylan murmurs against Connor’s mouth. “And then go home and eat.”  
    “Okay,” Connor readily agrees. “Whatever you want.”  
    Connor lets Dylan pull him to his feet, but almost falls again when Dylan says, “That’s you, Connor. Just you.”  
    He doesn’t fall, though. He just looks at Dylan, silent for a few moments, and then says, in a rush, as if he can’t get the words out fast enough, “I love you.”  
    Something in Dylan seems to collapse, and his whole expression breaks. Tears fill his eyes, and Connor worries for the heartbeat of silence between them before Dylan manages to whisper, voice as raw as Connor’s ever heard it, “I love you too.”  
    They don’t take another lap.  
    Connor gets Dylan out of there as soon as he can, and they get home in record time, and as soon as Dylan closes the door and locks it, Connor pushes him up against it and kisses him again.  
    “I love you,” he murmurs between kisses. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”  
    Dylan gasps. “Say it again.”  
    “I love you, Dylan,” Connor says, and it’s the truest thing he’s ever said. Dylan can’t stop the tears this time, and buries his head in Connor’s shoulder. Dylan shakes under Connor’s hands, and Connor tries to hold him together.  
    “I never thought--” Dylan doesn’t even have to finish the sentence. Connor knows exactly what he was going to say.  
    “You are more than good enough for me,” Connor says. “You, Dylan, you--you deserve better than me. You’re--you’re it, Dylan, I can’t--”  
    “Then don’t,” Dylan says, looking up. There are tear tracks on his face. Connor wants to kiss them away. “We won’t--do this right now. Just--kiss me again?”  
    “Yes,” Connor says.  
    And he does.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you enjoyed!! come find me on tumblr and yell about these idiots with me!


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